C4

“Did you really think a few drops of human herbal sludge could permanently fix an Alpha line's heart, Maureen?” Headmistress Birdsong’s voice cuts through the dim hallway of the Pack Healing Center, sharp as a silver blade.

I lean back against the cold stone wall, my thick, curve-heavy hips settling into the bench outside the medical wing. The air smells of antiseptic, ozone, and the sour metallic tang of Maureen’s suppressed wolf panic. I don't flinch as Maureen Gilbert stalks down the corridor, her manicured claws twitching at her sides, her violet neck-wrap fluttering over her black lace dress.

“She’s a baseline stray!” Maureen screeches, her amber eyes flashing with dangerous heat as she rounds on the head physician. “She has no pack standing! She was swapped into my bloodline by a corrupt nurse seventeen years ago, and now she’s poisoning Grandmother Pearl with unverified human remedies! I want her off Gilbert Pack Lands immediately!”

“The scans don't lie, Luna Maureen,” the doctor replies, holding up a clear glass slide of Pearl’s blood work. “Pearl Whitlock’s internal channels are completely clear. The angina has vanished. Her wolf heart is beating stronger than it has in a decade.”

Maureen’s jaw snaps shut, her nostrils flaring as she turns her glare onto me.

“You think you’re clever, Joxie?” Maureen sneers, stepping directly into my space. Her high-ranking pack authority rolls off her body in thick, suffocation-heavy waves, trying to force my human knees to buckle. “You took your cheap human cycle, picked up your little leather bag, and ran straight to Silverpine City. But you are nothing. A fat, scentless mistake. The Davis Pack Household sent their enforcers to reclaim you. Your real father, Sterling Whitlock, signed your custody over to clear his gambling debts!”

I slowly stand up, my full, heavy frame towering over her thin, lace-draped body. My human heart beats at a flat, lazy sixty-five beats a minute. “Save your bark, Maureen. I’m catching the late transport to Silverpine City anyway.”

“You won't make it to the terminal,” Maureen whispers, her voice dropping into a lethal purr. “The pack council stripped your name. You have no transit pass. If your heavy boots touch the Mooncrest Iron Gate without an Alpha signature, the guards will break your legs and toss your body into the boundary river.”

She turns on her heel, her designer boots clicking violently against the floorboards as she leaves the wing.

I don't waste time arguing. I pick up my dark canvas bag, my silver needles rolled safely in my inner pocket, and walk out of the Pack Healing Center.

The air outside is damp and heavy with the scent of pine. The rain has stopped, leaving the asphalt of Mooncrest Pack Roads slick under the streetlights. As I cross the gravel lot near Mercer’s Market, a low horn sounds from the alleyway.

A broad, sleek black sedan idles in the dark. Its reinforced steel frame and tinted windows carry no pack decals, but the dark energy vibrating off its chassis screams territorial power.

The driver’s side door swings open.

Celt Hawkridge steps out into the night fog. He wears a heavy leather coat that broad-shoulders his massive frame, his black cap pulled low over his scarred cheek and sharp jawline. His scent hits the wind—pure cedarwood, cold iron, and the electric tension of an unbonded Alpha wolf.

“Need a lift to the terminal, neighbor boy?” I ask, stopping three feet away, resting my weight on my thick legs.

Celt’s scarred lip twitches with dark humor. He crosses his arms, his gray-blue eyes tracking the full curve of my waist and the heavy rise of my chest under my white cotton top. “The terminal’s locked down by Gilbert enforcers, human. You try to board a train, they’ll chain you to the tracks. Get in the car.”

“What’s the price, Hawkridge?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“You fixed my brother Creed’s silver wound last month,” Celt rumbles, his voice dropping into a gravelly baritone that vibrates against my skin. “Consider the ride payment in full. I’m heading to the Davis Alpha Residence anyway.”

I don't argue. I throw my bag into the back seat and slide into the leather passenger chair. The four-hour drive through the dark boundary woods passes in heavy, charged silence, Celt’s massive heat filling the small space until the air feels thick enough to burn.

By the time the sedan pulls up to the terminal concourse near Silverpine City, it is late. I pull my duffel out, stepping around to the open window.

I reach into my pocket, pulling out a small glass bottle of clear liquid, and drop it onto his lap.

“What’s this?” Celt asks, his thick fingers picking up the bottle, his gaze locking onto mine.

“Wolfsbane neutralizer,” I reply flatly. “Creed’s scar will burn during tomorrow’s full moon. Three drops will stop the fever.”

Celt’s eyes darken, a flash of possessive amber lighting up his irises. “You didn't have to give me this, Joxie.”

“Consider it tip money,” I say with a faint smirk, turning on my heel. “Don't get killed in the border wars, neighbor boy.”

I pull my bag over my shoulder and walk toward the terminal exit.

The flight from the local pack strip to the main district gets me into the city central terminal just before midnight. My phone vibrates violently in my pocket—dozens of notifications flooding the screen from numbers I haven't saved.

Before I can clear the screen, an incoming call flashes. It’s an unknown local line.

I swipe to accept, lifting the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Joxie?” a sharp, young male voice comes through the speaker. “It’s Briggs. Your brother. I’m standing by the main transport arrivals pole near the outer gates. Are you out yet?”

“Five minutes,” I reply, my voice dry.

I slide the phone into my pocket and drag my heavy luggage through the glass sliding doors of the arrivals hall. My biological parents, Sterling and Lorelei Whitlock, had sent me photos of my four unshifted brothers months ago when they first tried to claim me. My human memory is sharp, and I spot him immediately.

Briggs Whitlock stands by a concrete pillar, dressed in an overly crisp dark suit that looks entirely too tailored for a family that claims to be drowning in pack debts. He’s tapping his foot, impatiently scrolling through his phone screen.

I pull my bag up, settling my heavy hips as I stop right in front of him.

Briggs freezes, looking up from his phone. He glances down at a photo on his screen—a picture of a young girl with braided hair and heavy blush, looking thoroughly like a timid country baseline—then looks back at my face. My bare skin, unbothered posture, and sharp brown eyes don't match the image at all.

“Joxie?” Briggs asks, his eyebrows drawing together in complete confusion.

“Yeah,” I say, leaning slightly against my luggage handle.

Briggs scratches the back of his neck, his handsome face twisting into an awkward grimace. “You... you look completely different from the photo Mom saved from Messenger.”

I glance down at his screen, recognizing the old selfie I had carelessly sent months ago just to stop them from texting me. “Guess I’m just not photogenic.”

Briggs stares at my face—my sharp features, smooth skin, and thick dark hair falling over my shoulders. “Not photogenic? With a face like that, you look like you belong on a Lamont Media House poster. If you aren't camera-ready, half the pack stars in Silverpine City should quit.”

He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably under my direct gaze. “You’re... kind of weird, Joxie.”

“You’re different too, brother,” I say, my voice dripping with subtext as I take in his expensive suit and custom leather shoes. “For a family that’s supposedly so poor they had to sell my mate-rights to the Hawkridge line, you dress exceptionally well.”

Briggs’s jaw tightens for a fraction of a second before he forces a easy smile. Before he can answer, his eyes dart past my shoulder, his face instantly softening. He lifts a hand, waving through the crowded concourse.

“Tuesday!” Briggs calls out.

I turn my head casually. Walking toward us at a rapid pace is a slender female clad in a pristine white sundress. Dark designer sunglasses hook over her low neckline, her silver-white hair catching the bright fluorescent lights of the terminal.

“Sorry I’m late, Briggs,” Tuesday Gilbert pants, wiping a tiny bead of sweat from her forehead. “The pack transport lines were completely backed up near Hawkridge Row.”

“No problem at all,” Briggs says gently, pulling a soft linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and handing it to her.

Tuesday takes the cloth, slipping off her sunglasses to reveal soft blue eyes and a delicate, sweet smile. “Thanks, Briggs. You’re always looking out for me.”

Briggs reaches out, affectionately patting her head as if she were a precious piece of glass. “Always.”

I watch the interaction with a lazy smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth. There’s no need to ask questions. This is Tuesday Gilbert—the biological daughter of the Whitlock family who was swapped at birth, raised in luxury by Maureen Gilbert, and now acts as the golden child of both households.

Tuesday finally turns her head, her eyes landing on me for the first time. She stops cold.

She expected a quiet, uneducated human girl dragged out of Whitlock Hollow. Instead, she’s staring at a curve-heavy, towering human female with cool, unbothered eyes and an aura of absolute dominance that doesn't rely on a wolf spirit.

“Right,” Briggs says, oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature between us. “Joxie, this is Tuesday. Tuesday, this is my sister...”

“I know who she is,” I interrupt lazily, checking the clock on my phone. “Are we going to stand in the draft all night, or are we getting food?”

Briggs pauses, surprised by my casual dismissal. He grabs my heavy suitcase handle. “Right. Let’s head to the car. Mom and Dad called three times asking if you were hungry.”

“Fine,” I hum, slinging my canvas strap higher onto my shoulder and walking past them toward the parking garage without waiting for an escort.

Tuesday stands rooted to the spot, her manicured fingers tightening so hard around her designer purse that the leather creaks. She watches Briggs jog to keep up with my heavy, confident stride, completely ignoring her presence for the first time in months.

Before Tuesday can take a single step to follow, a sudden wave of sharp, high-pitched murmurs breaks out across the terminal corridor.

A group of five tall young men in black enforcement uniforms march through the security archway, their presence immediately clearing a path through the human and wolf travelers alike. At the front of the group is Creed Hawkridge, his jaw set, his silver-gray eyes scanning the crowd with lethal intent.

“That’s the Hawkridge vanguard,” a girl near Tuesday gasps, pulling out her phone. “Why is the Alpha’s younger brother at a public transport terminal?”

Creed doesn't look left or right. He walks straight up to Tuesday, stopping two feet away. His wolf heat rolls over her, forcing her to take a quick step back.

“Where is she?” Creed demands, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates through the concourse tiles.

Tuesday blinks, trying to maintain her sweet demeanor. “Creed? Who are you looking for? If you mean the Gilbert Pack delegation—”

“I don't give a damn about the Gilberts,” Creed snarls, his amber eyes flashing with dangerous impatience. He pulls a folded parchment from his heavy leather belt—a thick document bearing the dark wax seal of the Davis Alpha Residence. “My brother sent us to collect Joxie Whitlock. The mate-contract was registered an hour ago.”

Tuesday’s face drains of all color, her breath catching in her throat as she stares at the official Hawkridge crest stamped on the paper.

“Mate-contract?” Tuesday stammers, her voice trembling. “She’s a human baseline! She doesn't have a wolf! Celt Hawkridge is the True Alpha of the Northern Quarter—he can't mate a scentless stray!”

Creed steps closer, leaning down until his shadow completely swallows her white dress.

“Tell that to my brother,” Creed growls, pulling out a heavy iron tracking ring and holding it out in the palm of his hand. “He just signed her name into the Hawkridge pack ledger. Hand her over, or we take this terminal apart row by row.”